


Toccata and Fugue

by Ashfae



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Classical Music, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Music, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Flashbacks, Friends to Lovers, Good AUmens AU Festival, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:28:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24708343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashfae/pseuds/Ashfae
Summary: In the mid-80s, during the years before Section 28 was passed, two very different music students met and became friends--perhaps more.Years later, one has a successful career as an internationally famed rock star whereas the other has faded into obscurity, and they haven't spoken in decades.What happened during their last year at university? Why did Aziraphale turn his back on his best friend, his own musical career, and everything he'd been working towards? What will happen when, against all expectations, Crowley shows up at a class reunion to ask exactly those questions? And most importantly of all, did everyone remember to bring their sheet music and a pencil?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 106
Kudos: 83
Collections: Good AUmens AU Fest





	1. Reunion - Thursday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the mid-80s, during the years before Section 28 was passed, two very different music students met and became friends--perhaps more.
> 
> Years later, one has a successful career as an internationally famed rock star whereas the other has faded into obscurity, and they haven't spoken in decades.
> 
> What happened during their last year at university? Why did Aziraphale turn his back on his best friend, his own musical career, and everything he'd been working towards? What will happen when, against all expectations, Crowley shows up at a class reunion to ask exactly those questions? And most importantly of all, did everyone remember to bring their sheet music and a pencil?

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/ashfae/50002751368/in/dateposted-public/)

  


* * *

  


[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/ashfae/50003528907/in/dateposted-public/)

[Transcription: 

**August 1st, 1991**  
All the Devils: _Most Delicate Monsters_ , published by Morningstar. Review by Gary Durante. Four stars. Tagline: "All the Devils might sing about the gutter, but they're looking like stars."

All the Devils exploded onto the rock scene in the late 80s with their debut album _Hell is Empty (All the Devils Are Here)_ and hit single "What the Serpent Said." Initially reminiscent of INXS with an unexpected scoop of symphonic metal, they've settled into a sound that's more distinctly their own with their new album, _Most Delicate Monsters_. "Buzz, Buzz" will get in your head and stay there whether you like it or not thanks to Beelzebub's coolly precise drumming, and the way Jacob Ligur and Eli Hastur trade guitar riffs on "Burn It Down" makes one wonder if their instruments are indeed at risk of catching fire.

But the star of the album once again is Anthony Crowley. Nicknamed "The Serpent of Eden" by ardent fans of the bang's first single, Crowley shines most--pun intended--on "Illumine" and "Binary Stars," both of which feature transcendent piano work to accompany the questioning, reaching lyrics and sultry vocals.

 _Most Delicate Monsters_ more than fulfills the promise _Hell is Empty_ offered. The band members' strengths have smoothed together into a cohesive whole, the music steps a little further into its own, and the songs are stronger than ever. The album makes a definite statement: All the Devils are indeed here, and here to stay.]

  


* * *

  


**_March, 2014_ **

Aziraphale wakes up comfortably, more comfortably than he does at his own home. He doesn't usually sleep well, but for once it's been a good night. He really must remember to compliment the owner of this bed and breakfast on the quality of her rooms. 

It's a nice change, in all honesty. He loves his bookshop--messy, crowded, stamped everywhere with the imprint of his personality, hard-won, and _his_ \--but this is still a nice change. Perhaps he should consider doing some traveling. A change is as good as a rest and all that. Except Aziraphale never has liked change.

Thoughts for another day, perhaps. For now he occupies himself with morning rituals, showering and brushing teeth and dressing. He ties his bowtie with the ease of long familiarity, adjusts his waistcoat and pocketwatch. Silly affectations, perhaps. But again, his own.

He walks lightly down the stairs, humming a little to himself. There's music coming from the hallway, something quiet and baroque--Handel, or perhaps one of the Scarlattis--and it looks to be a beautiful day, which always makes him feel buoyant. 

He finds the table marked off for him in the breakfast room easily enough. All the others are already occupied, and Aziraphale wonders idly if any of the other guests are in town for the same reason he is, but none seem the type. The landlady greets Aziraphale with real cheerfulness, accepts his thanks and takes his order graciously. Toast is already present, and he butters a slice eagerly. When his tea arrives Aziraphale sets it up just as he likes it, milk and one, and sits back to wait for the rest of his breakfast in comfort. He has a favorite book with him--not one of the good copies, of course not, this is simply a trade paperback to keep him company over the weekend. But books and toast don't mix well. It will keep for a few moments, though he can already hear the words within calling to him. In the hallway the music moves on to the next piece, and he finds himself absentmindedly humming along again, just as he does at home.

Aziraphale's eyes go wide as a sweet treble voice lifts in the air, and he abruptly puts down his teacup hard enough that some of the remaining liquid sloshes into the saucer. His chair scrapes ungently on the linoleum floor as he stands. 

He nearly bumps into his landlady as he walks out the door, and only narrowly avoids sending the tray she's holding crashing to the floor. "Mr. Fell! Is everything all right?" 

Aziraphale smiles, wide and bright. "Oh, quite all right, thank you. I've just, ah, remembered an appointment. I do apologize, must dash--"

He's halfway up the stairs again before she even begins her response of "But what about your breakfast?"

He closes the door to his room behind him and leans again it, breathing heavily and feeling...foolish. So very foolish. It was only a recording, after all. Just a recording. Ridiculous, to react in such a way. He usually doesn't. 

After a few minutes of catching his breath and feeling his heart resume its normal pace he looks around. The room still feels bright and comfortable, and yet...well. Sunshine and fresh air, that's the ticket. A brisk walk, and he can simply get something for breakfast somewhere else. Likely none of the places he used to visit in his salad days are still around, but no doubt there will be something.

Twenty minutes and a several streets later find him happily ensconced in a booth in a cafe, and if the vinyl seats are rather torn and poorly repaired with duct-tape, at least they're nicely plush. The tea needs to steep longer and Aziraphale could do without the television showing some tedious breakfast news show and the noise from the kitchen is really rather impressive, but it's still a pleasant morning, all things considered. No harm done.

Aziraphale lets out a long sigh of relief and wriggles in his seat until he's comfortable and pulls out his book to read as he waits. _Venetia_ by Georgette Heyer, marvelous, he hasn't reread this one for a while, and it should pass the time nicely until his meal is ready...

" _\--guest today is the lead singer of_ All the Devils _. Some call him the Serpent of Eden, but to us he's better known as A.J. Crowley--_ "

Aziraphale goes statue-still. The television isn't loud, but the voices are penetrating, even over the noise of the cafe. It's behind and above him, so he can't see the screen without turning and craning his neck at an uncomfortable angle. So it's just as well that he has no intention of looking, or even any desire to look. None at all.

" _Thanks, pleasure to be back on the show._ "

" _Now, it's been a while since we've caught up with you--_ "

" _Tell me the truth, is it my charming self you've missed or were you really hoping to see the ballgown again?_ "

Aziraphale shakes himself a little, picks up his book, and firmly opens it to the first page to begin reading. 

" _Hah, yes, I'll admit I've traded off that story for years. This outfit seems almost tame in comparison, though I notice the trademarked snake themes are still present._ "

" _Sorry to disappoint you and tomorrow's papers, but we can't be trendsetters all the time. It gets exhausting._ "

" _And is that how you're finding stardom of late? Exhausting?_ "

Aziraphale can almost hear an eyebrow being raised, impossible as that is. " _Oh,_ stardom _is a bit much, wouldn't you say?_ "

" _After nine studio albums, two live albums, two greatest hits collections, assorted solo projects and I have no idea how many world tours--_ "

" _All right, all _right_ , fine, call it stardom. And no, I wouldn't say exhausting. Just busy._"

A tray lands on the table in front of him and Aziraphale jumps, startled. The waitress gives him a friendly smile. "There you go love, ham and cheese omelette with a side of toast, wasn't it?"

"Yes!" Aziraphale says, more loudly than he intends. He flushes a little. "Er, yes. Thanks so much."

She walks away, heels clacking on the floor, and he unwraps the napkin from his cutlery and places it neatly on his lap. 

" _Your name has been paired recently with both Carmine Zugiber and artist Lilith Menendez--_ "

" _Don't tell me you're listening to the rumor mill--_ "

" _I'm afraid I must, it's part of the job._ "

Aziraphale butters his toast perhaps a little more forcefully than is strictly called for. 

" _Yes, well, as you should know already, it's all bunk. Lilith is a good friend and Carmine, uh, certainly makes for exciting company. But no, haven't got a partner at present. Of any gender, I should say._ "

" _Mm, I had also spotted that photo of you a few weeks ago with noted restauranteur Raven Black--_ "

" _Not just rumor but scurrilous rumors! He is_ really _not my type._ "

" _So what would you say is your type?_ "

" _Why, you angling for a date? I didn't realize this was that sort of show._ " 

There's laughter from the television, and from the table next to him, where two young women who were formerly talking about their families are now looking up at the screen with evident pleasure. One of them is wearing a red t-shirt with a black snake emblazoned on the front, coiling itself in a shape not unlike an upside-down Christmas tree. 

Aziraphale eats his breakfast as quickly as possible, _Venetia_ balanced on the table in front of his plate like a shield, then goes for another walk before wiling away the rest of the morning at the public library, where there's no chance of electronic interruptions of any sort.

  


* * *

  


Tadfield has grown in the past twenty years, but the Eden Conservatory of Music is still more or less in the middle of things. It'd begun as one large, grand building but then gradually expanded over time, purchasing and renovating or replacing other houses or plots of land nearby, resulting in an odd assortment of buildings of various sizes and shapes that stretch into the rest of Tadfield like tendrils. 

The closer he gets, the faster and thicker the memories come. That's the park where he used to come to feed the ducks--how fleeting are all human passions compared with the massive continuity of ducks, indeed--and there's the rock he'd climbed up onto while half-drunk after being dared to sing filthy rugby songs for an equally inebriated audience. It seems so long ago now.

It is so long ago, really. Aziraphale sighs, aware that twenty-odd years have not been kind to him. And yet he's happier than he once thought he would be. He has work he enjoys, he's financially secure, and he has his privacy. Those are not small matters, not to Aziraphale. Moreover he's free to do more or less as he wishes when he wishes. The fact that he so rarely wishes to do anything is a minor point. 

All the same, the wave of nostalgia that strikes him as he looks at the ducks and the rock catches him by surprise.

Resolutely he turns his attention back to the road, which is better paved and better lit and definitely more traveled than it was in his day, and before too many more minutes have passed he finds himself standing in front of Eden's main building: Edwardian in style, four stories of red brickwork and tall windows and white crenellations. A Grade I listed building for its age and beauty, surrounded by other buildings of architectural note and neat rows of oak and yew trees.

What strikes him first is how familiar it all looks. What strikes him second is how changed it all is. It's hard to say which is the greater blow, but a blow it is, and he almost reels from the shock of it. Somehow he hadn't been fully prepared. He's remembered the overall shape of the place, and smaller sections, but to see the whole of it, to view the forest and the trees both at once, overwhelms him. It's the same dear building, but he can see where things have been replaced or repainted or expanded. There's the curve of the new auditorium visible behind it, built in a much more modern style, and badly needed, he remembers how cold and damp the old one was...

So many memories. Aziraphale feels brimful with them, enough to ache, and he's only just arrived. He hadn't expected it all to be so visceral.

He takes a deep breath, crosses the road, and walks through the propped-open door.

The lobby is decorated everywhere with banners and posters that proudly proclaim "REUNION WEEKEND", and there are stacks of flyers and schedules and events and who knows what else neatly stacked on desks, along with various paraphernalia emblazoned with the Eden name: pens, stickers, bumper stickers, clothing, even whistles. There's also a somewhat bored looking young man with curly brown hair and a name tag proclaiming him to be "ADAM (he/his)" sitting behind a counter reading a comic book. Aziraphale feels his smile return as he approaches. "Ah--I'm so sorry to disturb you," he says, by way of a greeting. "I'm one of the attendees and speakers this year. I understand I need to register?"

Adam, who very quickly shoved his comic under a stack of paper as soon as Aziraphale spoke, snaps to attention. "Yeah! I mean, yes, of course, sure. Can I just--" He reaches for a different stack of paper and pulls out a form and hands it over. "If you could--"

Aziraphale borrows one of the pens, which writes much more smoothly than he would have expected from something so mass-produced, and begins filling it out: Aziraphale Z. Fell, an address in Soho, local address, the space for mobile number left obstinately blank/ It only takes a few minutes. "I like what you've done with your name tag, by the way," he adds, glancing at it. "The pronouns. Most helpful."

Adam shrugs. "Yeah, my friend Pepper always insists. It's easier than listening to another of her lectures about how to passively support and respect people's gender identities for an hour." He grins suddenly, and it transforms his face, lighting it from within. "'Sides, she's right, though don't tell her that. She's _much_ too happy whenever we admit she's right about something."

Aziraphale chuckles, rather charmed by both the grin and the anecdote. They exchange further useful information, and Adam produces a map of the new expanded campus and a new schedule of events ("--'cause the one you were originally sent isn't quite right anymore, sorry about that, a few things got shuffled around at the last minute. Your talk is still on Saturday morning though, I remember seeing your name--" "Not to worry, dear boy, I've set aside the entire weekend and I'm sure it will all be just fine--") and before too long he has all he needs, despite both of them tending to be distracted by tangents. ("My friend Wensleydale was supposed to be doing this but then he had a rehearsal thing so he got me to fill in for him." "Well, it's very kind of you." "Not really. I made him promise to take two of my shifts in exchange.") Aziraphale is enjoying it all so much that when he glances down at the New and Improved Schedule of Events (Adam had definitely given it capital letters in his description), it takes a minute to realize what he sees there.

He stops mid-sentence, silenced, then comes abruptly back to himself with a start. "So this..." He breaks off, takes a breath, and starts again. "This, ah, is the accurate list of speakers, yes? And of...performers?"

Adam leans in and glances at the page. Aziraphale's thumb rests on the page next to a picture of an unmistakable figure leaning casually against a grand piano. "That's right," Adam says easily, as though it's not world-shattering. "That cellist guy had to cancel, and Ms. Hodges was in a hell of a state trying to find something to slot in and called in a favor. Sheer luck he was free and said yes, apparently. My friend Brian had to print out all the new posters and flyers and all. Twice, actually, there was this toner explosion the first time--"

"Yes, I'm sure, but--" Aziraphale swallows. "I thought--it is a weekend solely for alumni, isn't it? I...seem to recall hearing he never actually completed his degree, and had assumed--"

Adam tilts his head, obviously a bit perplexed. "Still went here, didn't he? 'Sides, who wouldn't want to meet him? Bound to be interesting."

"...interesting. Yes. Quite." Aziraphale looks blankly down at the flyer in his hand, blinks, then quickly replaces it on the stack. "Yes, well. Thank you so much for all your help, it's most appreciated."

Adam still looks confused, but gives him a wave. "No trouble. I'll see you around this weekend."

Aziraphale manages a small smile. "No doubt."

He leaves in a daze, walking out the back exit that leads towards the auditorium and other buildings. This time he doesn't notice anything, familiar or unfamiliar. He's too busy reeling.

It's not too late. He can always return to London. He could feign illness, perhaps, offer his most profound apologies and catch the next afternoon bus...but that would be _letting people down_. He can't. He's always hated letting people down. This is dreadful, this is exactly why he's never attended one of these things, not in over two decades. He doesn't know why he decided to attend this year at all. No, he does, it's because he'd been asked to give a small talk on Milton and Handel and Haydn by someone who'd enjoyed the essay he'd written on the subject some time ago, and he'd been so flattered by the notice and so abruptly curious to see the old stomping grounds again that he'd accepted despite knowing perfectly well that he should do no such thing...

Aziraphale stops in the shade of a tall tree and just breathes for a moment. 

He's being foolish. This is nothing. The concert in question isn't until Sunday evening, easily avoided. He'll stay and give his talk on Saturday morning and simply return to London earlier than planned. He can maintain a low profile until then, just in case. That's always come naturally to him, even back in the days when it was the opposite of what was expected. Fortunately no one these days remembers who he is anyways, and thank Heaven for that. A day and a half, and then he can return home. A plan that will satisfy his obligations and put him at no risk of seeing--

"...Angel?"

Aziraphale's breath shudders to a halt in his lungs. His heart stops mid-beat. For a moment there's no other sound in the world except the echo of that word hanging in the air behind him. The voice is as painfully familiar as it was when he heard it this morning, but this time it's not a recording. 

Well. No doubt this was inevitable, all things considered. As soon as he decided to return to Eden. He had to have known, deep down, that everything would be waiting for him. Including this meeting. It's why he's never come back before.

After what feels like an eternity Aziraphale squares his shoulders and turns to face it all: the word, the only person in the world who would have greeted him with it, and a past he's been trying to hide from for over two and a half decades.

"Hello, Crowley."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My entry for the Good AUmens event! My prompt was Musicians: Classical vs Rock and Roll, but it's slipped into Musicians: Music Students as well. Endless thanks to the Discord server and especially the mods for patience and enthusiasm. =)
> 
> Multichapter fics are historically my bane, but this one has an outline and everything! A really detailed multipage one! So here's hoping. I have plans and the whole shape of the story and the ending written, but as it's still a work in progress things are subject to change. I expect to add about twenty more tags including character tags and probably the rating will up to Explicit, though not for several chapters yet. Content warnings including for sex) will be provided wherever needed, I promise. If I miss one, let me know.
> 
> Anyone kind enough to reread may remember the conservatory was originally called St. Cecilia's. To confess, I saw [Whiteley Foster's fantastic Eden shirt](https://whiteleyfoster.tumblr.com/post/622376259036610561/yooooooooo) and realized I'd missed a trick. Though my conservatory was not founded in 4004 B.C. =) It borrows liberally from the St. Cecilia's Hall in Edinburgh (which I cannot recommend highly enough), the Royal Academy of Music in London (which I've only seen on the internet), and my own experiences studying music in college (which will remain undetailed).
> 
> "How fleeting are all human passions compared with the massive continuity of ducks" is taken from _Gaudy Night_ by Dorothy Sayers, which among other things is also about someone returning to their alma mater after many years absence and making a journey of discovery there. _Venetia_ has been stated by Neil to be one of Aziraphale's favorite books (also one of mine). Various other references to Shakespeare, Dante, and Milton abound, because I am a happy classics geek. 
> 
> Credit for the ABSOLUTELY SENSATIONAL Rolling Stone review and album cover art, and also the Baroque and Roll pun, go to **Fyre** , who also deserves credit for letting me bounce so many ideas off her head that honestly I should just add her as a co-author. This story wouldn't exist at all without her support and I'm endlessly grateful. Thanks also to **mostlyagoose** for betareading!
> 
> And thank you all for taking time to read this. Concrit is VERY welcome, I'm quite thick-skinned about writing criticism and want the story to be the best it can be, so please feel free to jump on any misspellings, things I've gotten wrong about English universities, and honestly anything you notice. I enjoy it.


	2. Flashback - October, 1985

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting in a library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I aten't dead and neither is this story! Apologies for the long delay, I'm a slow writer at the best of times, and no one could call 2020 the best of times.
> 
> I edited the first chapter a fair bit after it was first published. St. Cecilia's is now the Eden Conservatory of Music because clearly I missed a trick there, and I set the timeline back just a few years, plus a few other small details. Sorry for any confusion! Please do prod me if I missed something. =) Many many many thanks to **silvercolour** for betareading and catching tons of little errors I would've been very irritated about having missed. <3

**October 21st, 1985**

It was 4:04pm, and Aziraphale was thinking about sin. Specifically, he was determining where "writing in library books" should fit in the list of the Seven Deadly Sins. Since sheer rude thoughtlessness wasn't one of the seven [1], he was inclined to put it under Sloth. Was it _really_ so difficult to keep a notebook instead? Though there was also an argument to be made for Pride, since obviously such lofty individuals as music students shouldn't have to concern themselves with petty matters such as _respecting other people's property..._

Suffice to say that after an hour spent erasing pencil marks in recently returned orchestral scores, with painstaking care so as not to damage the already-thinner-than-usual paper, Aziraphale was _distinctly_ peeved. He couldn't prove exactly who had done all the damage, but he would be eyeing all the violinists who attended Eden with suspicion for a while.

He sighed and put down the eraser, flexing his cramped fingers and looking around. There was only an hour until closing time, and only a handful of students were in the library, though there were some...distinctive...noises coming from the 200s aisle that he was going to need to investigate in a moment, distasteful as the idea was. He grimaced. He'd applied to work at the university library expecting to handle books, and if he was lucky do some cataloguing. The application hadn't mentioned separating over-amorous couples, or that he'd better bring his own eraser. 

Or the music. He frowned a little. There were an assortment of stereos in the side room [2] available for students who needed to listen to a piece of music for their studies. It was handy, particularly for those who didn't have any sort of vinyl or cassette player of their own. [3] The library naturally provided a large assortment of recordings in various mediums, but he would wager that the crashing guitar chords and bass riff he was hearing weren't coming from anything in the library's collection. He would also wager on the perpetrator going deaf at an early age if they kept blasting things at such a high volume directly into their ears.

Aziraphale bit his lip, wondering if he needed to do something about either the misuse of equipment of the misuse or the stacks, when the decision was happily taken out of his hands by the head librarian. Mrs. McDormand's quick footsteps were followed by a brief, terse conversation which Aziraphale tried not to overhear. He did glance up as the students were escorted out, just in time to catch a rather sheepish _Sorry!_ mouthed by Eve. He pursed his lips and tried to look reproachful. Adam and Eve were lovely really, a very sweet couple, but a bit lacking in self-restraint. 

Eve shot him a grin and he couldn't help but smile back, just a little, as they ran giggling through the double doors, no doubt to continue their explorations elsewhere. Mrs. McDormand detoured to the Listening Room on her way back, and another short discussion ensued. Aziraphale, having returned diligently to his erasing, this time heard an insouciant voice drawl "--thought this was a listening room, and I'm listening, aren't I?" followed by another quiet but firm shut down. The music was turned down, and the footsteps returned to their office with a satisfied briskness. This was Mrs. McDormand's library, and her rules were enforced. 

Aziraphale sighed. In theory he was meant to do some of the enforcing, but he really wasn't all that good at it, even when he wanted to be. 

He was good with the books, however, and let those take his full concentration, painstakingly erasing underlines and circles and dynamic marks, until they were as faint as possible without risking damaging the paper beneath, until he was startled back out of his work once more by a patron. Long fingers placed a stack of cassette tapes balanced on two large scorebooks on the counter. They were beautiful fingers, carelessly elegant and strong, decorated with an assortment of rings. A large metal cuff with zig-zag patterns circled the wrist, the oversized bluntness of it an odd contrast to the delicate bones underneath. 

Aziraphale spent a lot of time watching people's hands: hands playing instruments, turning pages, holding a conductor's baton. There was no reason for these to imprint themselves so immediately on his attention, but they did. He watched as one finger--black nail polish, who'd ever even heard of such a thing?--tapped against one plastic cassette box. 

"Well, that went down like a lead balloon."

Confused, Aziraphale blinked, then looked up. He was startled again by an angular face, dark sunglasses framed by shoulder-length dark red hair. "Sorry, what was that?" he said, rather stupidly.

Whoever-it-was raised an eyebrow. "I said, that went down like a lead balloon." He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the window, where Adam and Eve were visible, standing outside and hand-in-hand as they talked and smiled at each other. The patron's mouth twisted, and he lowered his hand. Aziraphale's eyes followed the motion, then stalled on the patron's t-shirt, which was decorated with the outline of an airship crashing towards the ground. Aziraphale blinked and finally interpreted the words above it. "Oh! Oh, I see. That's clever. Though it is misspelled, that's a pity." 

The other student blinked, then let out a bark of a laugh as he pushed the hair back from his face. "Forgot I was wearing that, actually." He tilted his head. "You haven't heard of Led Zeppelin?"

Aziraphale's smile faded, but he set his shoulders. "Well, no. The fact is I'm not very interested in bebop."

Both eyebrows shot up. "Bebop." He sounded incredulous. "Did you seriously just refer to _Led Zeppelin_ as _bebop_?"

Aziraphale scowled. "Whatever you wish to call it." 

The student laughed, shaking his head in astonishment, then looked back at the door. "Anyway, my point is that all seemed a bit of an overreaction, don't you think?"

"They were being quite rude," Aziraphale said stiffly, remembering that he was an Authority Figure here and obligated to uphold the rules, which might not specifically include _Thou shalt not play bebop on the stereos instead of doing thy homework_ but probably should.

The eyebrow rose again. "What, by snogging in the stacks? I can think of worse things to be doing. Not like they were even being noisy about it."

"Unlike you?" 

The words slipped out before Aziraphale could withdraw them, but the only response was another bark of laughter and another grin, entirely unrepentant. "Just causing a little trouble. No real harm done."

Aziraphale _hmphed_ his disapproval. "Yes, well, I doubt anyone else attempting to use the Listening Room for their studies would agree, particularly given your volume levels of choice. Do you wish to borrow these?"

He reached for the cassettes and the scorebooks, sliding them across the desk towards himself and beginning the process of finding their date slips. After a moment's pause and some fumbling in pockets a laminated rectangle was dropped on the counter, just barely within arm's reach. Aziraphale bit his tongue and retrieved it. The fact that his eyes went immediately to the name written there was because he needed to know it in order to check out the books properly. No other reason, certainly not curiosity.

He was busy writing the name (Anthony J. Crowley on the borrowing slip, stamp the due date card, repeat for each item) when he was interrupted again. "Have I seen you somewhere before?"

"We attend the same conservatory," Aziraphale said, a little snippy. " _And_ I work in the library. No doubt you've seen me many times before. Here you are." He took a deep breath to banish tension and pasted on his _look friendly, now, remember you're a professional_ smile before he looked up, only to feel it falter on his face as soon he saw a pair of amber eyes looking at him with open speculation above dark glasses. 

"Huh." Anthony J. Crowley (Aziraphale found himself wondering, nonsensically, what the J stood for) pushed his sunglasses back up his nose, then gathered together his things. "Well. Thanks for the help. See you next time I decide to come blast _bebop_ in the library."

He tossed a devilish grin at Aziraphale as carelessly as he'd tossed over his library card and left. Aziraphale stared after him, still seeing amber eyes and beautiful fingers even as the door swung shut.  


* * *

  
By the end of the week Aziraphale had mostly pushed thoughts of eyes and hands and the letter J out of his head, being much too busy with his own studies and his own work. There was a recital coming up; every student was required to perform in a certain number every term, and to attend another number in order to hear what their fellows were working on. Aziraphale was overdue for his first performance, but hadn't yet settled on a piece with his voice teacher. It was ridiculous how reluctant he felt about the entire business, it was hardly as though--

"Remembered where I'd seen you."

Aziraphale stopped in his tracks at the sound of the familiar voice. A feeling of dread settled in his stomach. He swallowed. "Did you?"

Anthony J. Crowley was leaning against the wall next to the entrance to St. Cecilia's Hall, arms folded over his chest. It was overcast with dark clouds and night was falling. If it weren't for the unmistakable voice it might have been difficult to tell who it was. Though the tall, lean figure had a presence that was difficult to mistake. "Yup." He popped the _p_ as he said the word, and his smile was...unpleasant. "Can't imagine why it took so long. The hair should've tipped me off if nothing else, that part of your look hasn't changed a bit. Did you know they have your albums in the library?"

Aziraphale shifted his weight uncomfortably. He did know. He'd shelved them. Charged them to patrons, even, several of whom had also made the connection. This shouldn't be as awkward as it felt. But it was, every time.

Anthony's grin was knife-sharp. " _Cherub_. Can't say it doesn't suit you. I remember reading about your scholarship, too. Suppose I should say _congrats_."

The word was almost spat in his direction, which was probably why Aziraphale looked to the side and muttered, "...gaveitaway."

Anthony blinked and unfolded his arms, leaning forward. "You what?"

"I gave it away!" Aziraphale balled his fists at his sides. "I didn't apply for that scholarship, I didn't need it, and I didn't want it. So I gave it away." 

There was a moment's stunned silence before Anthony sputtered. "Gave it--it's the fucking _Whitehilt_ Award! One of the most prestigious scholarships in the whole of the British Isles, if you're in music! You don't just _give it away!_ "

"Well, I did." Aziraphale raised his head, meeting Anthony's eyes--or at least his sunglasses--squarely. He'd already had this argument at the time, and facing down one almost unknown fellow student was nothing compared to having faced his entire team with his decision back when he'd made it. "I'm sure someone else needed it more and it's being put to good use." Anthony was staring at him, Aziraphale just knew it, dark glasses or no. He sighed and gripped his umbrella more firmly. "So if that was all you had to say, then I'll just...I'll be off."

He turned and had walked a few steps when there were a few muffled words behind him. "...'m sorry."

Aziraphale stopped and looked over his shoulder, perplexed. "I beg your pardon?"

It was Anthony's turn to shuffle his feet, apparently. "Said I'm sorry." He tilted his head. "You're really not what I expected."

"Yes, well, since I don't know what you expected or why you should have expected anything from me at all, I can't tell if that's a good or a bad thing," Aziraphale snapped, awkwardness finally turning to exasperation. It was almost dinner time and this was _really_ not his favorite topic of conversation.

"Good thing. Just for the record."

They looked at each other for another moment, then the clouds suddenly burst open with the storm they'd been threatening all afternoon. Anthony swore and pulled the collar of his coat over his head while Aziraphale hastily opened the umbrella he was carrying. Once sheltered he hesitated for a moment, then moved forward. "Look, if you're coming to the dining hall you may as well share my umbrella. You'll be soaked to the skin as you are."

He lifted the umbrella higher to show his willingness to let the taller boy under, but Anthony made no move. Impossible to read his expression properly with those blasted sunglasses in the way (and why on earth was he wearing them when the sun was, sadly, nowhere to be found?), but the raised eyebrow spoke volumes. "First you give away scholarships and now you're offering to share your brolly with someone who's mostly been bloody rude to you? What are you, some kind of guardian angel?" Aziraphale's lips stiffened, and Anthony immediately held out a hand to placate him even as he stepped forward. "Wait, no, didn't mean it to sound like that. I wasn't making fun, I swear. Just meant...it's decent, of you. To offer. Thanks." 

The tension relaxed from Aziraphale's shoulders. He tilted the umbrella a bit towards Anthony, who ducked under the shelter of it. He smelt like cigarette smoke and leather, Aziraphale noticed. And rain. "Well," he said, somewhat distractedly. "I suppose we'd best get a move on..." 

His voice trailed off as he suddenly realized that while he knew the other student's name they hadn't actually been introduced, as such. Anthony's mouth quirked as he clearly had the same thought. "Crowley," he offered. "Just Crowley."

Not Anthony, then. "Crowley," Aziraphale repeated obediently, adjusting his thinking. "Right, then. Pleasure to make your acquaintance. I'm...well. I suppose you know."

"Aziraphale Fell, yeah." This time there was nothing sarcastic, no edge to the grin. "Come on then, angel. Let's get to dinner and you can tell me how full of shit all my assumptions were."

Aziraphale surprised himself by laughing as they walked down the pavement towards the dining hall.

  


* * *

  


[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/ashfae/50304624321/in/dateposted-public/)

  


* * *

  


### Footnotes

1. Aziraphale considered this a serious oversight.↩

2. One with a CD player, which Aziraphale hadn't dared use yet; CDs looked like some sort of science fiction drink coaster to him, and he was worried he'd break them.↩

3. Aziraphale had heard the term 'boom box' and decided it was too ominous for everyday use.↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, I'm going to alternate chapters between present and past. Much as I'd like to claim using present tense for the present chapters and past tense for the flashbacks was deliberate, it was a total accident. But I like it so I'm keeping it.
> 
> Art credit once again to **Fyre** who is amazing. That's young Michael Sheen's head pasted onto Aled Jones' body, for the curious. More on Aziraphale's history as a chorister/boy soprano (and Crowley's initial antagonism) to follow later on, but I couldn't resist including the cassette now. =) 
> 
> All Aziraphale's thoughts on writing in library books are ABSOLUTELY shared by the author. Don't write in library books. Especially not in highlighter. It makes your librarians cry. As for people snogging or worse in the stacks, you don't want to know. Trust me.
> 
> The scholarship Aziraphale gave away is called Whitehilt because that's a translation of Dyrnwyn, a flaming sword from Welsh mythology. I'm a nerd. ;)
> 
> I thrive on concrit. Please give me all your nitpicking.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me [on tumblr](https://ashfae.tumblr.com/) if you like. =)


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